


A Very Good List

by cwmilton



Category: Emma (2020), Emma (TV 2009), Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers Fallout, Misunderstandings, Mostly Canon Compliant, Secret Relationship, Stolen Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24272545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwmilton/pseuds/cwmilton
Summary: Emma Woodhouse, author of many very good lists left uncompleted, creates a shortlist of objectives for the summer. However, her final objective--related to Mr. Knightley--must be reconsidered after his declaration in the shrubbery. Emma and Mr. Knightley muddle through their recently redefined relationship as they find new, delightful ways to vex, agitate, and provoke one another.
Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse
Comments: 36
Kudos: 349





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick warning: I've rated this story "Mature" out of an abundance of caution with a later chapter in mind, but I think I could have almost rated it "Teen and Up." Just wanted to set expectations both for readers who prefer stories "fade to black" and those who might wish this were a little more heated. :) 
> 
> I've written the other chapters, and I'm currently editing them so please comment if you have feedback. Thank you for reading!

> “I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through—and very good lists they were—very well chosen, and very neatly arranged—sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen—I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now.” 
> 
> — Mr. Knightley, _Emma,_ Chapter V

**Prologue**

Emma Woodhouse was good at lists. In her lifetime, she had made lists of books to read, of music to learn, of facts to know, and of patterns to sew. Now twenty-two, she was very aware that she was not particularly adept at actually completing any of those lists— particularly as they were usually crafted to be many pages long in order to impress Mr. Knightley. 

_Of course, to impress Mr. Knightley,_ Emma thought to herself. Just a few days prior, after Harriet’s admission of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, Emma had been vulnerable enough to allow her own feelings to surface. It was as if her heart were one of those dissected map puzzles she had given Henry Knightley last Christmas. Harriet’s confession was the final piece that allowed her to see the whole of the picture: Her disinterest in Frank Churchill, her jealousy of Jane Fairfax, the pain of his disappointment in her, and the emptiness she felt after his sudden departure to London. 

While he was away, Emma endeavored that she would become a woman more worthy of Mr. Knightley’s regard even if she could never possess it. When her mind was set to a task, she began where she always did— with a fresh sheet of paper. However, this time, she acknowledged, she would keep it short and accomplishable as this was a list she truly meant to finish. 

She sat down at her writing desk and picked up her quill. She wrote: _Be a friend to Jane Fairfax._ She had a very limited time to accomplish this particular task as surely Jane and Frank would be married soon, and she would leave Highbury for Enscombe. _Be kinder to Miss Bates._ This she had already started, and she felt sure their relationship was on the mend. _Be supportive of Harriet._ This one was rather more difficult as she was not sure that she could ever accept Harriet as Mrs. Knightley, Mistress of Donwell. Nevertheless, Harriet’s consideration of Mr. Knightley would never have occurred if Emma had not acknowledged her and brought her into his society.

The last objective was rather more difficult to define so she simply wrote down, _Mr. Knightley._ She was not sure what exactly she meant by that— Did she mean she wished to win his approval? His friendship? His love?— but she knew that their current break must be mended in some fashion or another. She would rather have him in her life as her friend than in no capacity at all. She was at least fairly certain of that. 

Pleased with her concision and her fine handwriting, Emma folded the list in half and put it into the drawer of her writing desk. She would call on Jane Fairfax first thing tomorrow. As for now, the morning rain had stopped, and she was feeling a keen need to breathe fresh air and take a turn or two around the shrubbery. 

**Part I**

It seemed that no matter how short a list Emma created, she was doomed to fail at its completion. In the past weeks, she had made substantial progress toward three of her four objectives. After a few gift baskets that included Cook’s strawberry jam and long visits to the Bates’s cottage, her relationship with Miss Bates was on its way to being fully mended. Emma had just recently learned that Harriet Smith was to marry, at last, Robert Martin, and Emma had written to her friend most enthusiastically to express her joy. 

It was the first item, _Be a friend to Jane Fairfax,_ where she had faltered. She had every intention of inviting Jane Fairfax to afternoon tea every few days. Perhaps then they could develop enough of a friendship to advance to morning walks. She had envisioned their fond letters to one another after Jane was married and settled at Enscombe. 

Her headway regarding Jane Fairfax had been stalled by— it must be said— rather excellent progress on the last task: _Mr. Knightley._ Indeed, she had been delighted to find a mere hour after writing her list that Mr. Knightley’s heart had already been won, that their friendship had transformed into something altogether more charming, and that he found her just as she was— faults and all— more than deserving of his love. When Emma had written her list she had not anticipated how very busy being quietly attached to George Knightley would keep her. She told him as much as they sat together in a remote field at the edge of Mr. Knightley’s estate, out of view from their acquaintances, servants, and worrying fathers. 

“Mr. Knightley,” she said, leaning against his chest as she fashioned a daisy chain, “Our secret engagement occupies a great deal more of my time than I would have expected. I am always having to derive elaborate excuses. Currently my father thinks I am with Harriet, Harriet thinks I am at the church arranging flowers, and the church committee thinks I am with my father who is feeling ill. It is no wonder that Jane Fairfax seemed so aloof these past months.” 

“We do not have a _secret engagement_ ,” he said, playing with a loose tendril of her hair, “You make me sound like that wastrel Frank Churchill.”

Emma turned to face him, her eyes wide, playfully scandalized, “We are not engaged?”

He touched her nose to hers, “We are engaged, but it is not intentionally a secret.”

“Because the first person we must tell is my father,” she stated plainly. 

“Yes.”

“Who we will not tell until Mrs. Weston is safe.” 

“Yes.” 

“And so in the meantime, we are the only people who know.” 

“Correct.”

Emma draped the daisy chain onto his head and adjusted it so it rested like a crown. 

“It sounds like a _secret_ engagement to me.” She nodded in finality and looked at him with an impudent smile.

“Nonsensical girl,” he nearly growled as he sat forward and reached for her. She shrieked in delight and attempted to wriggle away, falling backward in the process. Laughing, he fell with her—landing practically on top of her with his hands bracing himself on either side of her person. She moved to brush the flower chain off his cheek where it had fallen when she noticed the sudden depth of his expression and the shallowness of his breath. His gaze, achingly slowly, moved down her face and settled on her lips. 

They had kissed before. First on that wonderful afternoon, both of them anxious to solidify their transition from friends to something infinitely more dear. Emma would never forget the sense of relief, of peace when his lips had first brushed hers. However any calm effect quickly dissipated as their kiss had deepened— his hand moving to the small of her back, his lips becoming more demanding and insistent. An urgent, painful longing for something— she knew not what exactly— grew deep at her center. His tongue had swept across her bottom lip and then explored her open mouth. _More_ , she thought, _just more._ They had broken apart, breathless, and he had buried his face at the base of her neck whispering as he kissed her pulse point, “My darling, Emma.”

Since then, they had shared sweeter, briefer encounters— when her father left the room to retrieve the agricultural reports or while saying goodbye behind the big tree near the gate— but Mr. Knightley had never kissed her with quite the same passion he had on that first day. Emma was not certain how she might prompt him to do so though she dearly wished he would. She knew he must be desirous of it as well and was sure it was some noble fancy stopping him. She had caught him looking at her while they sat by the fire one evening, reading. He hadn’t turned a page for several minutes and from the corner of her eye she could see him in his chair, his head tilted thoughtfully, studying her person. His eyes were dark and unfocused. Her father must have sensed something amiss for he insisted that Mr. Knightley be wrapped in several blankets as he was certain the poor man looked feverish. Mr. Knightley had pouted from beneath a pile of wool for the rest of the evening.

That night, they had not been alone, as they were now, and they certainly had not been horizontal, as they were now. Emma unconsciously wetted her lips as she tilted her head upwards, hoping he would meet her halfway. He began to lower himself toward her when, all at once, his expression altered. His gentlemanly instincts had prevailed. He sighed and pushed himself up. Once standing, he reached down to grab her hands and assist her. 

He fondly brushed a bit of dust off the back of her dress. “If I do not escort you home now, then you will be late for tea with the Westons.”

Emma nodded and took his arm. Though she felt some disappointment that he had not given into the moment, Emma was pleased to add a new requirement for completing her final _Mr. Knightley_ objective. She was not sure she would ever be able to give voice to the task, and she certainly would never write it down, but— she mused to herself, looking sidelong at Mr. Knightley’s dear, serious face— if she had to name it, she supposed it would be something along the lines of, _Awaken the beast within._

— 

Unfortunately for Emma’s list, Mr. Knightley came by early the next morning with most unhappy news. He was to return to London for a few days to discuss shipping arrangements in advance of the fall harvest season. After he had spent breakfast with her and her father, Emma walked him to their big tree by the gate, as had become their custom, so they could speak more plainly.

“I am sorry, Emma,” Mr. Knightley said, and he took both of her hands in his. “You know I am loath to leave you, but this matter is of great import for my tenants and therefore cannot be helped.” 

Emma looked up at him. She was sulking rather childishly, but was anxious he should know how disappointed she was by his departure. “You promise that you will be back by the Coles’s party? You know I would not have agreed to attend a party hosted by people in trade if you—.” 

“I promise I will be there. Even if I have to ride to Cole’s directly.” He kissed the knuckles of her left hand and smiled. 

She was not quite ready to let him off. “You know,” she said, “The Coles always insist on a dance or two at their gatherings. If you miss the party, I shall be forced to dance with someone else! But then again, perhaps you do not plan to dance at all. You shall let every other man in the county dance with me.”

His mouth settled into a straight line, and he glowered. Emma was actually pleased to see a glimpse of his old frustration with her impertinence. She hypothesized that a bit of bickering might lead to a very intriguing denouement.

“I am sure I could be persuaded to dance,” he smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes, “If the most beautiful woman in Highbury would agree to be my partner.” He lowered his lips to her other hand. 

Emma glared at him. He was so determined not to take the bait and continue this gallant charade. She knew that simmering beneath his placid expression he longed to correct her snobbish attitude toward the Coles, scold her for threatening to open up her dance card to the whole county, and, Emma hoped most dearly, _stop her mouth._

“Ah, then you shall have ample opportunities to dance. For with Frank Churchill at Enscombe, Jane Fairfax shall be very much in need of a p—” 

Mr. Knightley forced her chin up and covered her lips with his own quite soundly. Emma melted into his embrace, sliding her hands up to encircle his neck, but then he changed tact. Perhaps sensing her smugness, he began to tease her— moving to kiss her jawline, each side of her mouth, her upper lip, and then her lower, before finally placing a soft kiss at the center. 

He broke the kiss but kept his face near to hers. His eyes looked so dark, so full of mysterious intent. Emma thrilled at the idea that she caused this fire in him, and she longed to see where it would lead. But further progress would not be made today. 

“I must go. If I cannot meet with the gentlemen at the transport company this evening then I will not be able to return on Friday, and you will be forced to dance with every tradesman in Surrey.” 

Emma bit her lip and smiled. Her curiosity would keep for a few more evenings. She released him from her embrace. He took up her hand one last time, kissed it emphatically, tipped his hat, and was gone. 


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos! I'm glad we all seem to be an agreement that a slightly tortured Mr. Knightley leads to better outcome for all of us, Emma in particular. Unfortunately, we're not going to make things easier for either of them today.

_Two days later..._

Mr. Knightley knew he had left London later than he ought. He was sure to arrive at the Cole’s at least half past the hour named in the invitation. However, for the first time in his adult life, he found that he actually _cared._ As the good-natured master of the largest estate in his vicinity, Mr. Knightley’s presence was always an honor at any party, his lateness was never remarked on, and his eccentricities— rarely appearing in anything other than riding boots, forgoing fine gloves, arriving on horseback or on foot— were easily forgiven and looked upon fondly by nearly all. 

Of course, now more than ever before, he longed for the good opinion of his only critic, Emma, who he was sure would be most disappointed by his lateness and his rough appearance. He bitterly regretted it, but could not urge his mare, Bessie, much faster. He worried that with one glance at his rumpled attire and muddy boots, she would rue her decision to attach herself to an old country gentleman. Old _er,_ not _old_ , surely, allowing himself some vanity. He knew he must not compare favorably to well-dressed, cosmopolitan men like Mr. Churchill. He had even briefly considered getting his hair cut in London in the latest fashion. He wanted her to be pleased with him— and dear God, he wanted to please her. 

A darker part of him looked forward to her chastisement. The way she would become flushed in frustration, her decolletage turning the most lovely shade of pink, her eyes wild, their whispered arguments bringing their faces closer and closer together until he could feel her breath on his ear. How he’d love to pull her into the nearest room, lock the door, lift her skirts, and show her all of the advantages of being attended to by a not particularly gentlemanly gentleman. Let her scold him for not wearing gloves after _that._

Mr. Knightley shook his head and prompted Bessie to pick up her speed. It seemed wrong to lust flagrantly after a woman he respected and admired so much. He remembered distinctly the first moment his thoughts had trended in this new and, at the time, terribly unwelcome direction. It had been last Christmas when they had sat in the Hartfield parlor with John and Isabella. Mr. Knightley had always admired Emma’s beauty and elegance. As he had told Mrs. Weston, quite without awareness, “I love to look at her.” However, that evening, bathed in the firelight as she was, his gaze had fallen lower than was usual, to the green trim of her collar. How soft her skin would be there, he had imagined. How wonderful it would be to trace her neckline with the tips of his fingers or, even better, with his tongue.

While Mr. Woodhouse had kindly offered his carriage that evening, Mr. Knightley had insisted on walking home in the frigid air, hoping to freeze out these improper thoughts of his dear friend. It had been another six months of slow torture— the arrival of Frank Churchill, their dance at the ball, seeing her so at home at Donwell, the Box Hill excursion— that forced him to acknowledge his love for her. And then, by some divine providence, he found that she loved him as well. 

He was incredibly gratified that she seemed to enjoy his attentions and return them, but he feared that she would be frightened by the depth of his desire. He was a man, afterall, and he had spent nearly the past half year imagining what it would be like to kiss her, to touch her, to make that clever mouth gasp and sigh— perhaps behind the display shelves at Ford’s, or in the Hartfield greenhouse, or hidden by a particularly robust shrub at Box Hill. A particular fantasy wherein he found her alone enjoying his strawberry fields had agonized him while he hid from her in London. 

Even now, after their most impassioned moments together, Emma seemed to fix him with the most quizzical stare, and he could not discern its meaning. He thought she might need time— after all she still insisted on calling him “Mr. Knightley”— to adjust to the idea of being not just friends and partners, but lovers. With their wedding date not yet fixed and their engagement still unknown to their friends and family, Mr. Knightley thought it best not to press the issue. After they were married, he was certain Emma’s natural curiosity would lead them both to satisfaction. 

—

Emma Woodhouse felt certain that Mr. Knightley would be late. He was late to nearly every party he attended— always with some vague excuse of “business.” She suspected it was just a ruse to avoid small talk before dinner. She was quite desperate to see him and hoped that, with a few artful glances and pert remarks, he might continue what he had started behind the tree by the gate.

She prematurely felt his absence even more keenly as most of her closest friends would not be attendance this evening. Mr. and Mrs. Weston had excused themselves as they anticipated the imminent arrival of their little one. Harriet was now ensconced in the warm society of Abbey Mill Farm. Frank Churchill was still at Enscombe. Her own father never attended gatherings such as these, making only a special exception for the Weston’s. 

The one bright spot was that she had planned to have Mrs. and Miss Bates as well as Miss Fairfax join her in her carriage. In her dim mood, Miss Bates’s cheerful soliloquy might actually be welcome. And indeed, the journey together there and home would help her continue to advance her case for Jane Fairfax’s friendship. Even if they were not able to get a word in edgewise, surely Jane would credit her for happily tolerating her aunt. However, word had come earlier in the day that Mrs. Bates was quite ill with a cold, and Miss Bates would stay home to care for her mother. Jane Fairfax, still planned to attend the Coles’s party and would be most grateful for Miss Woodhouse’s carriage which meant that Emma and Jane would have at least half an hour tête-à-tête. 

This was a little more intimacy than Emma had accounted for— particularly if Jane Fairfax was in one of her reserved moods. Emma shifted anxiously as she waited outside the Bates’s cottage. At the last minute, she had asked Searle to bring her one of her finest necklaces, an emerald pendant, and a diamond comb. She had hoped the jewels would bring her a bit of confidence, showcasing her means and position, but she now felt like an overdressed bauble. A bit of fluff next to Jane Fairfax’s natural elegance and substance. 

The footman opened the carriage door, and Jane Fairfax practically leapt inside, smiling warmly at Emma. As soon as the door to the carriage was closed, Miss Fairfax declared heartily, nearly surprising Emma out of her seat, “Oh Miss Woodhouse! How glad I am for the opportunity to speak to you alone. I fear we will not have many opportunities, and there is much between us that must be said!” 

It was as if the floodgates had opened for both of them. Neither could apologize more. Sitting across from each other in the carriage, they talked one over the other. 

“You must have thought me dreadfully rude—” 

“I should have done more to earn your confidence! How lonely it must have been!”

“While I am glad of the outcome, I know our secret must of hurt so many—”

“We are delighted by your happiness!”

“— my Aunts—” 

“Elated to see you married.”

“—Mrs. Weston—”

“Glad to welcome you as another daughter—” 

“—You.” 

At this the conversation abruptly halted as Emma felt the full meaning of what Jane implied. Once again, she felt there was little way to acknowledge her own lack of heartbreak without damning herself further. Still, it was best to assuage Jane rather than attempt to defend her own conduct. 

“Though I am sure my manner over the past months left a very different impression— and I am very sorry for it— I never had hopes of my own for Frank. When I learned of your engagement the only sadness I felt was in regards to my own behavior toward both you and Mr. Churchill. Had I been less motivated by my own amusement, I might have noticed that you were in need of a friend, and there would be no need for apologies on either side.”

Jane clasped her hands together, her eyes brimming with emotion. A companionable silence fell over the carriage. 

A slightly more mature, more refined woman might have left the conversation at that, but Emma Woodhouse was not one to let a good story and a fine romance go to waste. “Oh, Miss Fairfax! You must tell me all about your first meeting with Mr. Churchill. I want to know every particular.” 

Jane happily described in the kind of detail only ladies are capable of how she had Mr. Churchill had come to be acquainted, and Emma fulfilled her end of the bargain by asking all of the right questions at the right moments. As Jane’s story came to an end— with a secret, whispered agreement on the shore beside the sea— Emma sat back sighing, lost in the glamour of it all. 

“Oh Miss Fairfax! How romantic to have found true love among strangers in a beautiful place so far from home. I can hardly imagine it.”

Miss Fairfax looked at Emma ponderously. After a long moment, she responded slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I often feel that the most romantic aspect is that we actually _share_ a home— Highbury. Indeed, we might have grown up together.”

Emma cocked her head in inquiry, unsure of Jane’s peculiar tone. 

Miss Fairfax continued, “Do you not think, Miss Woodhouse, that it would be most romantic to find love among one’s dearest friends, perhaps here at home in Highbury? Right where one would least expect it?”

Emma’s mouth gaped. _She couldn’t know— could she?_ She reached into her memory to try to discern how they might have been discovered. 

“I’m sure— We aren’t— Well, when I say _we_ —” 

Jane smiled kindly as Emma’s attempts at denial only revealed her further. “I’m afraid your schedule, as relayed to me by my aunt, has been particularly tireless lately. She is always seeing you walk back and forth down Donwell Road.” 

Emma, unsure of what to say and knowing that any additional words might give them away further, glanced out the window. She could see the welcoming lights of the Coles’ house coming into view. 

“May I offer you some advice, Miss Woodhouse?” Jane suddenly began again.

Emma, still quite bemused, nodded in acquiescence. 

“While I am very happy to have our engagement known to the world, Frank and I have had barely a minute alone since we told everyone the truth.” She looked up at Emma from underneath her brows, something guileful playing at her expression, “There are certain, er, benefits to a secret engagement which I highly suggest you take advantage of while you can.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Emma’s mouth dropped open in shock. Before she could say anything coherent, the carriage door was open, and she could have sworn Jane winked at her before she bounded out just as merrily as she had entered.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I am an active member of the Jane Fairfax Rehabilitation Society. She gets to have a little more fun in this chapter as do our hero and heroine. Thanks again for kudos and comments! It's been fun to see everyone who has commented's response, and I hope that the characterizations remain true (and enjoyable) in this chapter as well.

Emma had never felt less herself. She was quite used to being surrounded by her friends who doted on her—the Westons, Harriet, even the Bates, and of course Mr. Knightley ( _late_ , as expected). Though the Coles were excellent hosts, Emma felt awkward. It was the peak of summer, and the room felt overly warm. She was sure she was flushed. She had forgotten what to do with her hands and kept fussing with her emerald pendant. The other parties in attendance, which unfortunately included the Eltons, had very little to say to her, and Jane Fairfax’s demeanor had reverted to the placid reservation she was infamous for— though she did flash Emma a friendly smile now and then. If this was what it was like to go out into larger society, Emma would no longer wish for it.

To complicate matters, as the conversation circulated around her at dinner, Emma’s mind was consumed by all the ways she and Mr. Knightley should be, as Jane Fairfax advised, taking advantage of their secret understanding or—as Mr. Knightley would perhaps prefer it—presently unannounced engagement. Jane Fairfax and Frank, it seemed, had been in a scandalous _affaire de coeur_ across the English countryside. Emma felt a little proud of Jane for being so brazen. She would not have thought she had it in her. 

Emma felt that, in many ways, they _had_ been making the most of this private time. Though Emma thought until recently that she knew everything there was to know about Mr. Knightley, she had found over the past days that she still had a great deal more to learn. For a man who seemed most content with his lot, Mr. Knightley possessed a great many hopes and dreams of which she was hitherto unaware. As they wandered through the fields of Donwell, he had described in great detail how he planned to modernize the estate and grow its output. He sent away often for the most recent scientific papers so that he could better understand the latest agricultural theories and apply them here at home. While Emma could not confess an ardent interest in farming, she enjoyed seeing his innovation and was honored that he would discuss such matters with her, wishing to gain her endorsement as the future mistress of Donwell. These walks were often punctuated by loving caresses, but not the ardor implied by Jane Fairfax’s knowing smile and cheeky wink.

They would tell her father of their intention to marry very soon, and, as such, would not be as often alone together. Emma fancied that in her capacity as Emma’s governess emeritus, but being herself indisposed, Mrs. Weston might post a sign-up sheet in the town square where Highbury’s ladies could register for chaperone shifts. Emma chuckled inwardly at the thought. _Miss Bates from nine o’clock until noon. Mrs. Goddard from noon til four._

Emma’s imaginings over dinner were swept away as the footman stepped into the room and announced the arrival of “Mr. George Knightley.”

If Emma hadn’t been flushed before, she certainly was now as she took in his appearance. Perhaps in the past two days she had forgotten exactly how handsome he was. His hair was mussed, his eyes alight from the exercise. He had worn very tailored clothing for the ride which only drew attention to his firm, upright figure. His eyes searched the room for hers, and upon finding them he smiled so openly at her she thought her heart may have stopped. So caught up was she in her reaction that she forgot to smile back. 

Mr. Knightley took his seat at the other end of the table next to Mrs. Cole. Emma tried in vain to follow Mr. Cole and Miss Starr’s conversation regarding mutual friends near Bristol. After their meal, the gentlemen, including Mr. Knightley, had brandy on one side of the room while the ladies played Whist on the other. Emma’s discomfort continued. Whenever she looked at Mr. Knightley he seemed to look away. She wondered if he was displeased with her in some respect. Perhaps he thought ill of the finery she had chosen to wear this evening, which only made her fuss with her pendant and the comb in her hair all the more. Perhaps he found fault with her low energy and suspected it was further evidence of her condescension toward the Coles. 

Emma was partnered with Mrs. Elton who, after yet another bad round of play on Emma’s part, sighed with great frustration and threw down her cards. “I have always thought that card games are an excellent exhibition for a lady’s intellect, but it seems this evening I may not have the opportunity!”

Emma opened her mouth to apologize or object—she hadn’t quite decided which—when Mr. Knightley—just as her wits were being called into question, naturally—was by her side.

“Surely cards are more about luck than intelligence, Mrs. Elton,” he said jovially. He casually rested his hand on the back of Emma’s chair and for the briefest moment his knuckles brushed against her back. Emma shivered. 

“I find that people make their own luck, Knightley.” Mrs. Elton said sharply as she expertly shuffled the cards. 

Emma was ready to settle in for yet another round of listless Whist-playing, this time with Mr. Knightley there to witness her failure, when Jane Fairfax, who had been quietly sitting in the corner with Miss Cole, stood up and said with a great deal more volume than was her wont, “Miss Woodhouse, do forgive me, put you look quite red!” She took Emma’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “Would you like to take a turn about the garden?”

Emma’s eyes reflexively darted toward Mr. Knightley whose expression remained impassive. Miss Fairfax nodded at her gently, and Emma couldn’t help but nod back.

Not a second later, Miss Cole went to the pianoforte. “Shall we all have a dance before the end of the evening?” 

“A capital idea, dear!” Mr. Cole, who was very fond of dancing, said with great enthusiasm. “Miss Fairfax, you did say you would lead off a Quadrille with me!” 

“Oh dear!” Miss Fairfax sighed heavily, but her eyes were filled with mirth, “I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, I must fulfill my promise to Mr. Cole, but I am most concerned with your health. You seem quite feverish. Why Mr. Knightley!” She turned to him and curtseyed as if just noticing him there. “You are no lover of dancing. Would you escort Miss Woodhouse to the garden for a bit of air in my stead?”

Mr. Knightley smiled—wanly, Emma thought—and gestured for her to lead the way. 

— 

Once outside, his stilted manner did not dissipate. He walked next to her, his hands behind his back. 

Emma could not bear the silence any longer. “How was your ride back to Highbury? Smooth, I trust?” 

“Quite,” he answered after a long moment. 

“You were late.”

“Yes, I apologize. It could not have been helped.” 

“But your business was concluded without much trouble?” 

“Oh yes. Everything was in order.” He diligently studied the path as they walked slowly around the circumference of the garden. 

“You were much missed at Hartfield yesterday. My father is most keen to show you the new wooden models he ordered.”

“Ah.” 

Emma grew agitated at his reticence. She was sure he was just waiting until they had reached a more secluded corner to scold her for some fault he had found. Perhaps, now that they were again among company, he was regretting his decision to attach himself to such a vapid creature— unable to even match Mrs. Elton at card playing! But who was he to judge her conduct? _He_ — who had arrived _late_ looking more like a post carrier than a gentleman! This hypocrisy could not be allowed.

She was just working up the nerve to speak her mind when, as they reached the end of the garden, he grabbed her wrist and spun her toward him. He kissed her roughly, crushing his mouth to hers and pushing his tongue between her lips before she could respond. The strange aching urgency she had felt before began to build again as she clung to his shoulders. His hands slipped from their usual place about her waist to grab at her hips, pulling her to him. Emma could feel his growing desire for her pinned between them, and it thrilled her. His mouth moved to her neck, and while she felt briefly bereft, the novel feeling of his day’s worth of stubble tickling her delicate skin as he lightly sucked beneath her jawline set her aflame. She ran her fingers through his hair and sighed, “Mm—Mr. Knightley...”

And just as suddenly as it had begun, he stepped back, quickly releasing his grip on her. He ran his hand over his mouth in shock and disbelief. He looked at her with deep regret, his eyes wide and pleading, “Emma, I must beg your forgiveness. I—”

Emma could barely hear for the thundering in her ears. The vexation of the evening— Jane’s implications, her discomfort at the party, Mrs. Elton’s insults— came roaring back as, to top it all off, Mr. Knightley expressed _regret_ for having passionately kissed her! Kissed her the way he ought to have every day— perhaps every hour— since the shrubbery! She clenched her fists, and her mouth tightened in frustration. It was not to be borne. 

“How dare you!” she interrupted his entreat, “How dare you kiss me the way I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me for more than a week! All those doting caresses and teasing looks. I’m your betrothed, and you’ve never even mussed my dress!” His face shifted from contrite to incredulous. She would not be cowed. “And now you finally _do_ , and it’s just outside a party— half of which is composed of people we barely know— to which I must return with the degree of coherence and dignity befitting a lady.” 

Mr. Knightley balked at her, his brow furrowed. “In defense of my conduct, I have been making every effort to do nothing that would threaten, as you say, the dignity befitting a lady, though I have very much desired to.” She huffed at this, but he continued. “Then after two days of absence, I find you here tonight with your golden hair—” he gestured wildly at her person “—fussing with your jewels which only calls attention to your perfect neck and—” He stopped. Emma blushed at where his gaze had landed. He shook himself out of his brief preoccupation. “—And this sultry, indifferent state that begs to be corrected! What man in love could not have acted as I did?” 

“Oh, sultry? _Indifferent_?” Emma could not help but argue back, “I was merely trying to keep my composure during an already irregular evening, and then _you_ walk in looking all _windswept_ and bright with exercise!” 

They stared at each other. Mr. Knightley watched her with such intensity she could hardly catch her breath. She jutted out her chin in defiance and tried to keep her gaze even with his. Even though he had his short coat on, she sensed that his every muscle was taut— like a tiger in the grass about to strike. 

“Miss Woodhouse? Mr. Knightley?” Jane Fairfax’s voice floated down from the house. “Everyone has decided the evening is too warm for another dance, and we’re calling for the carriages.” 

“Thank you, Miss Fairfax,” Emma called back, “I am ready.” 

Mr. Knightley said nothing. He did not even move until, as if with great effort, he offered her his arm, and led her up the path.


	4. Part IV

Miss Fairfax rushed up to Emma and Mr. Knightley as soon as they re-entered the house. 

“Oh Miss Woodhouse! You still do not look at all well!” she said with expressive concern. “Mr. Cole, Mr. Cole! Do you not think Miss Woodhouse might have a fever? We could never send her home to Mr. Woodhouse unwell. She must go straight home and get to bed.”

Mr. Cole made a show of examining her, but Emma knew his diagnosis was written as soon as her father’s name was invoked. “Oh yes, Miss Fairfax. Miss Woodhouse forgive me, but we must get you home at once.” 

Jane took Emma’s hand and patted it forcefully. Emma was sure Miss Fairfax was performing an excellent pantomime of Mrs. Elton’s overwrought concern. 

“Dear Miss Woodhouse, do not worry on my behalf. I am sure Mr. and Mrs. Elton would not mind if I returned in their carriage so your path to Hartfield may be more direct.”

Emma could not see the purpose in this. Miss Fairfax surely knew she was not actually ill, but there was nothing to be said except, “I am most grateful Miss Fairfax.” 

“But, oh dear!” Jane exclaimed, tutting at Emma, “I would be horrified to cause further apprehension for your father. For you to return home alone and ill…” She looked about the room as if searching for some solution until her eyes landed on Mr. Knightley, still standing at Emma’s side, completely perplexed. “Ah! Of course! Mr. Knightley! You have been ever so helpful this evening, and I’m afraid we must call on your services again. Would you escort Miss Woodhouse back to Hartfield and convey to Mr. Woodhouse that all she is in need of is a good night’s rest? I am sure that Mr. Cole will keep your horse for you.” 

“Of course!” Mr. Cole agreed, “We will make sure to give Bessie a good feed, and you may come get her tomorrow whenever is convenient.”

Mr. Knightley nodded. “Thank you, Cole.” He turned to Emma and gestured toward the door. “I would guess your carriage is ready.” 

Mr. Cole and Jane Fairfax followed them into the vestibule. “Now Knightley, you must make sure Miss Woodhouse goes straight to bed! I would not want Mr. Woodhouse to think we were anything but solicitous of Miss Woodhouse’s health! She must not do anything to endanger it further.” 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Cole,” said Emma as Mr. Knightley assisted her with her shawl, “I am sure Mr. Knightley would be the first to tell me if I did anything that might upset my father or imperil my well-being.”

“I’m sure he would—as he should!” said Jane Fairfax. Though her look was stern, Emma could see the corner of her mouth upturned. “You would deserve quite the thorough tongue-lashing!” 

It took all of Emma’s self control not to burst out with laughter. Who would have believed, Jane Fairfax, as bawdy as they come? She was certain that Mr. Knightley had finally caught on for she could see he was trying very hard to conceal a smile. He tipped his hat, “Thank you for a very pleasant evening, Cole, and for your concern, Miss Fairfax.”

Emma curtsied to Mr. Cole and then gave Miss Fairfax a warm embrace. As Emma pressed her cheek to Jane’s, she whispered through gritted teeth, “You are the _devil._ ” 

Miss Fairfax whispered back just as softly, “You may thank me later.” 

—

Mr. Knightley escorted Emma outside, handed her into the carriage, and sat next to her on the forward-facing bench. With only the carriage lanterns and a little moonlight, it was dark in the cabin and therefore difficult to see his expression. He reached over to take her hand and play with her fingers as he often did of late when he was thinking through a point. 

He must believe her quite shameless for speaking as she did in the garden, but she could not regret it. Before his declaration in the shrubbery, she had pondered what it would be like to have Mr. Knightley’s peculiar, exclusive, and passionate regard— was it wrong to be impatient for the whole of it? 

“Jane Fairfax has found us out,” he said finally. 

“Yes,” Emma replied, “I do not know exactly how. It seems Jane Fairfax is more accomplished than I am at matchmaking as well.” 

Mr. Knightley laughed softly and silence fell between them again. 

“She did have quite singular advice for us,” Emma said, desperate to renew easy conversation between them. “She says we should take advantage of our privacy while we can.” 

There was no immediate response. The carriage was agonizingly quiet. Emma was grateful for the darkness. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the feeling of his hand softly caressing her fingers. She felt him shift on the bench beside her. 

“Indeed.” He replied. His voice was low, and his mouth inches from hers.

Neither could tell you who moved first. They came together like magnets— Emma clutched his lapels to pull him forward, and Mr. Knightley cupped her face with one hand while gripping her thigh with the other. This time, Emma resolved to give quite as good as she got. She experimented with gently licking into his mouth, trying to match his movements. Her hands slipped under his coat to feel the hard planes of his chest. She was intoxicated by the low growl emanating from his throat when she lightly nipped his lip. When they finally broke apart, Mr. Knightley’s breath was ragged, “Emma, that was…” 

Emma smiled. “I was only imitating what you taught me.” She pushed the edges of his coat back, and he shook it off his shoulders and arms. 

He kissed a sensitive spot behind her ear. “I always knew you’d be a scholar if you only applied yourself.”

Emma mock-gasped and raised her hand to playfully slap at his shoulder, but he caught her wrist instead and pulled her toward him saying, “Let’s review, shall we?” 

As their lips met again, he pulled her legs across his, tipping her backwards so that she was pinned against the wall of the carriage. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he held her against him, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. With his coat somewhere on the carriage floor, her fingers were free to trace the well-formed muscles of shoulders and arms. Emma squirmed and gasped as Mr. Knightley’s mouth explored the hollows of her collarbone. She could feel the hardness of his desire for her beneath her thigh. Driven once again by that unnamed need, _more,_ she pulled herself up into his lap. With a tight hold on her hips, he held her firmly down against him as he pushed up into her. 

To Mr. Knightley’s delight, this new position put her beautiful, soft decolletage directly before him. As his lips and tongue finally made their winding way down her chest, guided by the neckline of Emma’s gown, he recalled briefly his despair just a few weeks prior. He had been so convinced of Emma’s indifference. Even after Frank’s engagement had been revealed, his dearest hope had been that Emma would accept his comfort, and perhaps assent, after a time, to a gradual courtship. With this memory, a more gentlemanly gentleman might have recalled his resolution earlier that afternoon to keep his need for her in check. Instead, he indulged in a small, smug smile against her skin—knowing now that she was as elated to receive his attentions as he was to give them—and he slid his hands upward to knead her breasts. Emma hummed in response and leaned back to give him greater access.

Emma was so distracted with the new sensations she was experiencing, she barely registered his right hand making its way up her back to push the silk sleeves of her gown off her shoulders. Instinctively, she began to rock against him. His hissing breath in reaction blew cool air across her skin still wet from his tongue. Mr. Knightley fisted her dress just beneath her waistline and gave it a sharp tug to reveal a few inches of her chemise. His mouth dipped lower, planting open-mouthed kisses to the top of her breasts, and then lower still to the valley between them. As a lady, Emma had never been taught the words to communicate exactly what was needed from him at this moment, but he seemed to have a fair assessment of it, and she was happy to give him further encouragement. _“_ Oh— _Mr. Knightley!”_

She could feel him groan against her as he ran the tip of his nose across the lace at the border of her chemise while his fingers continued to work her bodice lower, uncovering the top of her stays. The vibrations of his voice made her shiver, and she pulled wildly at his hair.

“My _name_ , Emma.” It was a command, not a request. He dotted her chest with light, teasing kisses. “ _Call me my name.”_

And what _should_ she call him? She briefly considered the pleasing contradictions in their regard for one another. Here before her was her most constant friend, and yet he was the cause of her present undoing. Words she had always associated with their arguments— vexing, provoking, maddening— had taken a new meaning. Though his gaze as he reached up to kiss her again was worshipful, she knew he was the only person alive who saw her clearly, faults and all.

Finally she spoke, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does. 

“ _George,_ ” she whispered softly into his ear. 

And as he pulled down the edge of her corset with his teeth, Emma felt nothing more needed to be said. 

—

Only a few short minutes later, the carriage’s rumbling changed in texture signalling they had reached the start of Hartfield’s gravel drive. Emma went to work straightening and smoothing Mr. Knightley’s lapels as he restored the placement of her sleeves. The wrinkled and stretched bodice of her gown, however, was hopeless. He found her shawl on the bench opposite and wrapped it tightly around her person.

“Mr. Knightley—” she began as he struggled to hide any incriminating evidence in the drape of her shawl. He did not comment on this form of address, but raised an eyebrow at her. She fixed him with her most impertinent look, the one she knew drove him to distraction. “—I see that you’ve mussed my dress.” 

He kissed her nose. “Yes, I believe that was by request. And you know I can never refuse you. I am ever at your service.”

Emma knew this was not strictly true, but she would not contradict him this evening. They departed the carriage together— he would walk the rest of the way back to Donwell— and stood outside Hartfield’s entrance, unable to say a proper goodnight with the footmen and stable hands present. 

“Please tell your father, Emma, that you were relayed home without detour from Mr. Cole’s party.”

“He’s likely already asleep,” Emma replied, “But the quiet of the carriage ride home has left me feeling much improved.” 

Mr. Knightley softly smiled at her. “Do you plan to walk with _Harriet_ tomorrow?” 

Emma furrowed her brow, “No, I shouldn’t think so. Why—” 

“I was going to suggest you try the strawberry patches.” He waited for her to catch his full meaning. 

“Oh!” Emma laughed in realization, “Oh yes. _Harriet_. I’m sure she would like to see Donwell’s strawberry field again tomorrow, and she is so often near Donwell these days. Though I think it might be rather late in the season for strawberries.” 

Mr. Knightley took a step forward toward her. “I shouldn’t think so. You just have to know where to look. I’m sure if I join you, I’ll be able to find something sweet to taste.”

He looked down at her, and his smirk was positively wicked. Emma tried to send him a chiding look, but she knew she was failing to look very stern. 

“I would think we should arrive there around 11 o’clock if that’s agreeable.” 

“Indeed.” His eyes gleamed in the lamplight. “I’m sure it will be a most agreeable morning, Emma.”

The next day, Emma sat at her writing desk after breakfast and studied her list. She crossed out the items related to Miss Bates and Harriet. Reflecting on the events of last night, she crossed out _Be a friend to Jane Fairfax_ as well. The fourth item, _Mr. Knightley,_ deserved consideration. For though the job was done in some respects, she could not say she was fully satisfied. There seemed to be many more excellent possibilities for resolution yet to be discovered. Emma was anxious, however, to somehow mark the wonderful progress she had made. Finally, she knew what must be done. 

Emma drew a thin line through _Mr. Knightley_ and next to it wrote in effusive cursive, _George._ It seemed that in completing one task, she had created another— one she was sure she would never wish to quit. 

Emma didn’t pay it much mind. She was used to leaving her lists unfinished. What mattered was more was the attempt. After all, she thought as she cut through the fields to Donwell’s strawberry patch, Mr. Knightley— _George—_ did say that she’d be a scholar if she only applied herself. And she intended to apply herself to her final task most fully. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, friends! Thank you so much for following this story. As a long-time fan of both the book and all the movie adaptations of Emma, It's been so delightful to see this fandom come to life again, and I've been excited to participate. I'd love to write another story, but I'm having trouble deciding exactly where to go next (mostly because I could write a thousand stories about Emma and Mr. Knightley sneaking around, but that might get a bit repetitive). If there's prompt you'd like to see explored, please let me know!


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